Unacceptable Losses
by anotherwordshaker
Summary: Dawn takes stock of what she has left. Set immediately post "The Gift".
1. Chapter 1

It's a long way to the bottom of the tower. Spike's bones crunch when he hits the ground, the sound it rings through her head like a concussion. The knife bites into her skin. Blood is warm, the wind is cold, even this close to summer. When Buffy hits the concrete, she doesn't make a sound. Dawn knows because she listens for it expectantly, eyes closed, ears straining, the feel of her sister's kiss still scalding against the skin of her cheek. Eyes open, bare feet move forward, metal grating digging into the tender soles of her feet. The stairs spiral downward in tight little circles. At the bottom, she's dizzy, stomach in turmoil as she stares at the aftermath.

No one looks at her as she takes stock of the rest of her family.

Tara is clinging tight to Willow, stroking her hair as she sobs. Her eyes are bright again, not the dull dead things that have been darting around blankly for the past few days, and at least there is that. Giles is standing close, his hand on Willow's shoulder. He's not moving. Xander has Anya cradled in his arms, her body hanging limply. Dawn panics for a second, but then she sees the slight rise and fall of her chest, the way she leans into Xander and tangles her fingers in his shirt.

It takes her a minute to notice Spike. When she does, she almost calls out to him, but the words get tangled around the lump in her throat because he's moving. He's not a pile of broken bones on the concrete because he's moving. She hasn't killed everyone. He is doing something else though, something that doesn't make sense, shoulders shaking, hands tearing at his hair. Vampires are not supposed to do that. She realizes, that she didn't even know they could. Dawn doesn't pay much attention to the direction her feet have chosen to take her until her fingers fall softly on the back of his jacket. It makes sense, as she looks around at the others holding onto each other. Everyone's hands were full. Only one person needed her.

He tenses under her touch, looking smaller than he usually does, caving in on himself crouched in the rubble. She wants to put her arms around him, to latch onto something and let herself break, but she's afraid of his reaction. If he pushes her away, she's not sure she could stand it. So instead of burying her face in his duster and letting go, she lets herself sink down to sit next to him, close enough that she can feel the cold line of him pressed against her right side. The movement makes the cuts on her torso scream, but it's a muted kind of agony. She can't care about that right now, because Buffy told her to be strong.  
Buffy. There's only one person left that she needs to check on.

Dawn looks around, noticing for the first time the half circle they all make. She drags her eyes up to the center, curious. She has never seen Buffy broken before and if she looks, allows her eyes settle on a circle of spreading red or a collection of shattered bones, it would be real. Then maybe she could cry instead of just feeling this terrible tightness in her chest that makes her lungs burn. Master plan aside, she is almost grateful when one cold hand firmly grasps her chin, wrenching her eyes away before her vision can sharpen and zoom in. "

Don't you look at that, Bit." There are still tears on his face, but his voice doesn't waver, not like hers does.

"I-I just want to see her." Apparently, this is not a good enough argument because Spike just gives his head a shake, releases his hold, and stands up. Bones grind together when he moves, but the pain on his face is from nothing physical.

"We'll get those cuts, taken care of, yeah? You think you need a hospital?"

"No. Shallow cuts. T-That's what he said while he…" Dawn breaks off here because breathing isn't going over too well. Spike pulls her up and holds her there when she sways. He makes sure to stand to in front of her, still keeping Buffy from her line of sight. Dawn feels something wet on her face, salty when it slips past her lips. She tries to blink the tears back because Slayers didn't cry and they certainly didn't end up smashed into the sidewalk with their arms and legs askew. When she looks up, Spike is holding his head again.

"S'my fault Bit. If I'd just been a little faster—"

She grabs Spike's hand, hard. "No." Dawn manages to keep her voice steady this time. This is important. "It's not your fault, so don't say that. If it's your fault then that means its mine too, so just don't, Spike. Okay?"

He doesn't say anything, doesn't believe her. She's not so sure he should. They stand there for a long time, his arm brushing her shoulder, their blood making little rivulets on the ground, mixing together. She waits for something to happen, but there is no burst of white light or dragon roars. Dawn Summers is just a girl now. There's nothing extraordinary about her unless you count the fact that she is the last Summers girl, holding hands with William the Bloody while distant sirens make her ears ring. The last Summers girl, and she's not even real.


	2. The Amazing Invisible Girl

It's the coldest spring anyone in California can remember. She has to wear leggings under her dress to the funeral. It isn't really a funeral though, just the Scoobies all crammed together in a wooded grove where they put her body. It's deep in the woods, and Willow makes sure it's hidden. Someone could stumble upon it by accident, but the chances are slim. Everyone in Sunnydale who is stupid or brave enough to walk this deep into the forest is already here. They have it at night so Angel can make an appearance. It's the only time Dawn can remember him being around without Xander calling him dead-boy. Giles gives a little speech that she tunes out, her face pressed into Tara's shoulder. Anya keeps patting her awkwardly on the back, her arm in a sling for the second time. Just another Dawn related injury. Their little group is full of those.

Angel hugs her before he leaves and she wants to hate him. For making Buffy cry all those times and for leaving and for not being here when Buffy needed him. None of that's his fault though, and when he holds her and tells her that he'll always be there for her, she wants to believe him.

She talks Willow and Tara into sitting with her for another hour, but Spike doesn't show up.

* * *

She's getting used to being invisible. It's not anyone's fault really, they just can't look at her anymore. They all felt guilty, she guessed. Everyone felt like they should have done more, but Dawn has the biggest cross to bear. If a bunch of stupid monks had never made her, Buffy would still be here. She should have died, Buffy should have lived. It was that simple. They all knew it. And so they never looked her in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time. To help them out, Dawn keeps her gazed fixed on her ratty tennis shoes. She needs new ones, but she doesn't know who to ask.

And that's how it starts.

Under the strict training of Janie and Lisa, she picks it up quickly. Starting out small, she accumulates packs of bubble gum and tubes of lip-gloss and things from the front of the grocery store. She moves up to books and candles from the Magic Box, half-hoping that Anya will notice and call her out. Earrings that are much nicer than what her allowance can afford show up, accompanied by new tank tops, a watch that she doesn't wear but likes to look at, and finally, a pair of red chucks. She throws the tennis shoes away in the kitchen trash can. Plain sight. She wonders if her invisibility is contagious.

She counts off fifteen days on her calendar, just fifteen. Fifteen nights of crying herself to sleep and staring at the bloody dress that still hangs in her closet like a shroud. She plucks up her courage and walks through the cemetery for the first time since it happened. Buffy had made her a list once, of places she wasn't supposed to go to, as a sort of cruel joke after that night she found her listening to Spike spin stories with rapt attention. It had looked like this:

PLACES FORBIDDEN TO DAWN SUMMERS IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE

-Spike's Crypt

-Willy's

-Any of the many graveyards

-The Sewers

-The Bronze

-What's left of the High School

-Anya's apartment: I don't think you're old enough for sex ed.

She had gotten really mad when she found it pinned to her bedroom door with a thumbtack and screamed for Mom. She wishes she had kept it. Buffy hadn't kept diaries or anything and Dawn, now that she thinks about it, can't remember much about her handwriting other than how sloppy it was. At least she wrote in print though. Mom had always scribbled things down in looping cursive that was impossible to read. When she gets back, she'll see if Buffy has any old schoolwork lying around.

The smell of the cemetery, freshly dug graves and cold headstones, shouldn't be comforting, but somehow it is. How many nights has she hung out here with Buffy and Giles, waiting for fledglings to rise up and practically impale themselves on her sister's stake? She reads the names on the headstones as she passes them, WHITED, MCMILLAN, BRYANT, SUMMERS. Mom. It's not fair that Buffy can't be next to her. It's not fair that Dawn has to pretend everything's fine. It's not fair that Willow is fixing up the Bot again and none of them can look at it without their eyes tearing up. She shakes herself and keeps walking. Later, she'll bring Mom some flowers.

Spike's door squeaks when it opens, and the sounds makes her wince. It's dark inside, no candles flickering. Not that that means anything; Spike can see in the dark. Maybe, he only lights candles when he has humans over. That would make sense. Her new shoes slip on the second step down and she just barely keeps herself from falling, hands shooting out to windmill for balance. Slower this time, she walks forward. The T.V is off, black blank screen reflecting the evening light coming in from the doorway. The chair is empty.

"Spike?"

No answer. But that could just be a side-effect of invisibility. These things happened in Sunnydale all the time. "Spike!" This time, her voice echoes. And what if he's gone. People had a habit of leaving her, and there was nothing tying him here anymore. It made sense in a logical kind of way. Why would he stick around when there was no chance of Buffy loving him? Really, she should be used to this by now.

"That you, Nibblet?"

For a brief second, she smiles. Buffy is still dead. The smile disappears.

"Yeah, It's me."

Spike's head pops up from a door in the floor at the back of the crypt, hidden in shadows. She's noticed it before, but never got around to asking about it. It's probably full of something cool, like treasure collected over the past one hundred years, something Indiana Jones like, the arc of the covenant maybe. Or there could be catacombs down there like in that story that Mr. Briggs made them read last spring, about the guy who got chained up and walled in. And died screaming. Maybe it's just empty.

He closes the door behind him and strides across the floor. Spike looks genuinely dead for the first time since the Thanksgiving disaster when he'd been shot full of arrows and half-starved. There are dark, bruise-like shadows smudged under his blue eyes. His face is battered, which is funny because he hadn't looked like that after the fight with Doc. He'd been stabbed and thrown off a building sure, but he hadn't landed on his face. These bruises are fresh.

Dawn doesn't know much about alcohol, but it's easy enough to tell that Spike has been drinking. Is drinking, she corrects, eyes settling on the bottle dangling loosely from his hand. She can smell it if she scrunches her nose up and though he isn't staggering, his movements are wilder and looser. It has always been easy to talk to Spike, but for the moment, she's lost.

"I thought you might have left."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Still here. You getting' on alright? The Watcher staying with you?"

"Willow and Tara are. They—we've tried to call my Dad, but he never answers the phone. Same as-as when Mom died." It still feels weird to say that. She was still getting used to the absence of one family member only to have a second one ripped away. "He's probably still frolicking through Spain, screwing his secretary."

Drunk or not, Spike's eyes narrow a little at that. "Bastard didn't deserve your Mum. Or you, for that matter. Tell you what, he ever decides to show his face, I'll rough him up for you."

She smiles bitterly in spite of herself. "Chip," she says, a gentle reminder.

Spike scoffs. "Could still get a few good hits in." He opens a second bottle and points to the lone chair in a sweeping gesture. When she sits down, he takes the floor, leaning back against the bottom of the chair, his hair sticking up in tufts as his head barely brushes against her drawn up knees.

"I've never really met him, you know. Maybe that's why he won't answer." There it is again, that stupid wetness on her cheeks. It never fails to amaze her, how much one person can cry. It's only a matter of time before her tear ducts crap out.

"He won't answer because he's a soddin' idiot. Waste of your time, worrying about him, Bit. He's not worth it."

Angrily, she swipes at her eyes. Spike's right; it's stupid to cry over him. There are people more deserving of her grief. She can't help it though. Even though she's never technically met him and he's an asshole who can't be bothered to send birthday cards or pay child support half the time, he still feels like her Dad. "I just wish Buffy were here." It hurts to say her name. "She wouldn't be this weak. You'd all be better off, if I didn't exist. It's my fault."

"No good blaming yourself." Spike takes another drink.

"Look who's talking." She mutters, and then, louder, "I should have just jumped. None of this would have happened if I'd had the guts to jump."

"Leave it, Bit. What would big sis say, if she heard you talking like that?"

She'd yell at her probably. Dawn wouldn't even be mad if she could just hear Buffy's voice again. Just a few days ago she had snagged a shirt out of the pile of clean laundry downstairs and put it on, not thinking. It was only hours later, when she spilled something on it and thought _Buffy's gonna kill me_, that she remembered. "Shut up," she gets up, pushing past Spike and knocking him aside with surprising ease. He lets her.

He's too skinny, wiry muscle disintegrating into nothing more than pale skin stretched over hollow bones. She wants to leave because she's pissed, not at Spike, just at everything. But not yet. Spike might say things she doesn't want to hear but at least he'll look at her. At least his eyes will hold hers for more than a handful of seconds before filling up with tears. Just a few more minutes.

"What happened to your face?" she looks at the bruises, curious, hoping for a story about the fight. A blow by blow description with a happy ending.

Instead, he shrugs. "Blowin' off steam."

Anya says that Xander punched a wall when her Mom died. Maybe this was what guys did instead of crying. "Did it help?"

"For a minute, yeah."

In her head, Dawn makes a note of this and resolves to try it out.

"You haven't been eating enough. You look like shit." She doesn't cuss much, the word feels funny on her tongue, heavy. She likes the weight of it.

"Not hungry."

"Me neither. Willow still makes me eat, though."

He doesn't say anything else, just sits down heavily in the chair she gave up. Arguing with Spike is supposed to be fun, but all it's done is make her chest tighten and her stomach hurt. "I think I'm gonna go see Buffy."

She waits, fingers crossed.

But he doesn't say anything.

* * *

Note: I realize this chapter isn't all hugs and puppies. The next one should be less depressing.


	3. Slipping

"_Spike!" Doc is facing him this time, when he makes his way to the top of the tower, tongue slithering out as he smiles. This time, Spike is faster. Still healing scar tissue riddled along his torso does not catch and pull and slow him down. He knows each move Doc will make before he makes it. He's memorized the pattern of blows over the past sixteen nights. This time, it is Doc whose face twists in pain as his insides are rearranged around the knife, blood dripping through the grating below their feet. Spike makes sure he's dead before he nudges the corpse off the tower and listens to the crack and break of brittle bones. _

_ He doesn't waste any time. "You're okay?"_

_ Dawn nods vigorously, even though he can see bruises around her neck where fingers dug in. He growls, just a little, wishing he could get his hands on Glory. "Is everyone alright? Is Buffy okay, did she get Glory? I tried to see what's happening but looking down…"_

_ "Big sis is taking care of Glory. Everyone's fine far as I know. Willow's even got Tara right as rain again." He works the ropes as he talks, using his fingers instead of the knife because his hands aren't steady enough to risk it. The second the ropes fall from her wrists, Dawn flings herself into him, skinny arms wrapping around his waist and her face pressed into his chest. _

_ "I was so scared." _

_ He's not sure what he says in reply. It doesn't' register because halfway down the spiraling stairs, Buffy meets them, as she always does. Dawn leaves his side and runs into her sister's arms. And as Buffy holds her, she catches Spike's eye. _

_ "I won't forget this, either."_

He wakes up when the door of the crypt slams open. Dawn walks in, breathing a little unsteady, though she tries to hide it. The effort is wasted on him. The salt of her drying tears makes his nose sting. Grief and pain simply smelled heavy, there was no other way to describe it that fit. "Bloody Hell, Bit. What's wrong?"

Her bag thumps onto the floor, the sound of it sending shockwaves through his head, making him flinch. "I'm running away." She announces, impressively nonchalant.

"Spectacular job so far. They'll never think to look here."

She plays with the hem of her shirt, eyes darting to him and then away like she's searching for a verdict. Normally, he might offer up his chair, but in the past day or so, his muscles have disintegrated into something akin to barbwire. Moving doesn't agree with him. Dawn, after a moment of indecision, hoists herself onto the coffin lid and crosses her legs. Spike lets out a longsuffering sigh and sees her lip twitch just a little, which was more than he could remember getting out of her last night.

"You gonna tell me what happened or should I just head over later and start bashing in heads?"

"The second one," she answers immediately. He waits. "I'm supposed to be with Xander but he said something stupid about you, trying to make me laugh, I think. And I got pissed off, only I pretended not to be and told him I was going to the magic box."

He shrugs. "Not that the anger isn't appreciated, but it's not like the whelp hasn't said anything about me before. What's really got you brassed off?"

She kicked at the concrete. The echo reverberates through his skull. This time, she notices his wince. "Are you okay? Is it the chip?" The shrillness of her tone doesn't help.

"No, luv. Just hung-over. Little hungry too."

Dawn gets up then, rummages through her bag until she pulls out a packet out something and tosses it his way. Even with his reflexes shot to hell, he manages to catch the sloppy throw. His eyes focus. "Where the hell'd you get this?"

Her smirk is triumphant. "You look like a zombie, Spike. I just-I thought it would help."

His head tilts. "You nicked it then, is that it?"

"Well yeah, if you want to get technical about it. But they had plenty. It's not like they'll miss it. I mean, Willy probably won't even notice until—"

"You went to Willy's?"

His voice is loud enough here to contribute to his own headache. The Bit seems to realize her mistake then and starts to backpedal the conversation. "Anyway, I was pissed because—"

"No, no. Let's go back a step. I want an answer. Did you go into a bloody demon bar by yourself, to rob them?"

Arms crossed. She looks livid, but Spike can hear the nervous, uneven thumping of her heart. "Yeah, but I had a good reason."

"Good reason, or not, you're lucky you didn't get yourself hurt. Most of the bloke's in there'll leave you alone on principle, being the Slayers' sis and all, but some of them aren't too bright. Don't want to hear about you in there again." She opens her mouth, but he is quick to cut her off. His head is splitting. "And I've got my ear to the ground—I'll know, Bit."

She's nearing the door, shoulders slumped, frowning with her whole body. Her hands are tight fists at her sides.

He lowers his voice. "Almost dark out, Nibblet. You wait a minute and I'll walk you home."

"I've walked home in the dark lots of times. I'll be fine." Her smile is bitter enough to remind him of his own. He doesn't like seeing it on her; it doesn't fit. "I'm older than you are, remember?"

He snorts. "Yeah. How could I forget? Where you headed, got a destination in mind?"

"I was gonna stay with a friend, but he's kind of being an asshole."

Door slams shut. She left her bag. Spike doesn't mean to go through it really, but there's nothing on T.V and it's there. A blanket, purple and fuzzy. A few shirts and pair of jeans. Small collection of movies. Textbook and a scattering of paper and pencils. He had forgotten that she was still in school. Pretending that nothing had happened. That had to be screwing with her head. In the next pocket, he found nothing but blood. 5 packets of it in all, each labeled by blood-type in Willy's somewhat familiar handwriting. He changes face and rips into the first one. Stolen or not, he isn't about to waste it.

He's not gonna bloody thank her for it though. He still nicks things himself, so he can't yell at the Bit for it. Still though, it isn't really something he should be encouraging, especially if she was going to do it in places as dangerous as Willy's. Bag drained, Spike tosses it aside and puts the others in the fridge. He already feels more coherent than he has in days. His mind is sharper and still healing wounds don't twinge as much when he moves, but in some ways, it's worse. There's nothing to keep his mind from straying to Buffy. Her name in his head hurts more than the chip firing off rounds into his brain.

_Til the end of the world. _

He throws Dawn's bag back together and lets it dangle from his fingertips. He'll head to the bar and ask Clem to keep an out for the Bit, in case she decides to give it another go. After that, he'll make sure Dawn got home alright.

He made a promise.

* * *

Dawn locks herself in her room and doesn't come out for anything. She doesn't want to see it again. An hour ago, she had taken a peek out of the crack in the door and caught a single glimpse of blond hair that made her chest feel like it was caving in. It's safer in her room. Or it would be, if that stupid dress wasn't still hanging in the center of her closet, clothes pushed to each side around it, afraid to touch.

When it's quiet, she slips out and heads downstairs. There's no way she'll be able to fall asleep in her own room. She has been crashing in Buffy's bed, burrowing under blankets that still smell like her and pretending she's just out late patrolling, but the Bot's in there now. It's one thing to know about it, but she's not ready to see it replacing her firsthand.

The TV screen makes shadows on the wall as she flips absently through the channels. The late night stuff sucks, just re-runs of old sitcoms and infomercials for impossible things: knives that cut metal, glue strong enough to pull the dead weight of a tractor trailer. They pull her in, these inconceivable feats, and she's still staring at the screen hours later when a throat clears behind her. Living on a Hellmouth paid off for once, as she manages not to jump.

"You're up early. Couldn't sleep?"

It's just Tara, her voice soft and careful as always. She stands behind the couch and cards her fingers lightly through her hair. Dawn tries not to lean into the touch and fails. She likes being around Tara almost more than any of the others. Sure, Tara had loved Buffy. They all had, Dawn knew. But like Anya, Tara had married into their family. It was different for them. They could look her in the eye without seeing the thing that caused Buffy's death.

"Will you be alright for school?"

School. Dawn keeps forgetting about that. When Mom died she had been expected to grieve and miss days. This time, she isn't allowed to. "Yeah. I usually fall asleep in Biology anyway."

"Don't you have that test today?"

She does. She should probably be worried about that. "I studied with Janie in the library yesterday. I'll be fine. It would help if you made me some coffee though."

Tara doesn't catch the lie, probably doesn't want to. Denial in Sunnydale was an acceptable lifestyle choice. "Hot chocolate?" Tara offers instead.

"Sure. And pancakes?"

"Pancakes and hot chocolate. The breakfast of champions."

Dawn follows her to the kitchen, their arms brushing together as they go through the door. "Funny shapes or rounds?"

"Rounds. I'm not in a funny shape mood."

Tara tries to cheer her up by making hearts. They come out looking like butts. Dawn breaks her own rule and laughs before she can stop herself.

* * *

Time moves backwards in detention. It's been 5:15 every time she looks at the clock for the past hour.

They're supposed to call her parents beforehand, but no one answers. They give her a note to take home and bring back signed. Luckily Dawn was a pro at forging her Mom's signature. She practices on the front of her notebook absently, muscle memory taking over and forming the looping cursive. And her mom's signature isn't going to cut it anymore.

Does it still count as serving detention if you spend half of it crying in the bathroom?

Afterward, it's dark. She's walked home after dark loads of times. But she's never been cornered in the back of the parking lot by Kirstie and her loyal band of bitches. "Hey, Dawn."

Her voice is a lie just like the rest of her. Sweet and concerned like she really cares about the tear tracks that are probably visible on her cheeks. Her hair's probably messed up too, and of course they all look perfect, even dressed in sweats and tank-tops on their way back from cheerleading practice.

"Hi, Kirstie," is all she says though, because you had to be careful about these things. One misplaced syllable and she'd spend the rest of high school sitting in the back corner of the cafeteria next to the trashcans. There has to be a way out of this without talking. She's too tired for this, her eyes burning and bloodshot. If she opens her mouth again, something stupid or reputation scarring might slip out.

She wishes Tara had let her have some coffee.

One of the minions steps up to the plate. "Heard you crying in the bathroom earlier."

Kirstie takes over again, her face pinched in annoyance at having the spotlight stolen for even a second. "Yeah, Dawn. What's wrong? You can tell us, you know." Her voice is dripping with fake sympathy.

She wishes she were more like Buffy, but she can never think of anything clever to say until days or weeks later. "I just—had a fight, with my sister. It was stupid."

The minion to the left looks like her interest has peeked. "I bet it was. My older brother can be a drag."

"Shut up, Cara. What about?"

She's looking for something new to fuel the rumor mill. Like there isn't enough going around about the girl with a dead mother and a sister who hangs out in cemeteries. She is the headcase who sliced her arm open last year and cried in the middle of the hallway.

She should say something normal. Lying all the time was exhausting though. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. "Look, I've gotta go."

"What, are you afraid you'll get in trouble or something?" Kirstie is looking at her now like she's a particularly interesting type of bug.

"No one'll notice if I'm late. I just—"

"Then why not take a walk with us?"

Dawn hears herself say yes before she has time to think about it.


End file.
